


For You, a Thousand Times Over

by flopte



Category: Olympics RPF, Swimming RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 12:32:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4435637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flopte/pseuds/flopte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Michael proposes, and Ryan doesn’t say yes.</p><p>or</p><p>That mildly angsty Proposal AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For You, a Thousand Times Over

**Author's Note:**

> This was first posted on [olympic_slash](http://olympic-slash.livejournal.com/667648.html) in 2012 lmao. Crossposting it here only now because why the hell not.
> 
> Loosely based on Marvin’s Room by Drake, as prompted by [smellyleaf](http://smellyleaf.livejournal.com) on ficathon@lj. For the longest time I wanted someone to fill it, but the prompt wouldn’t stop bugging me with like, plots, so. The title is stolen from The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini. They're probably OOC, and this is maybe too cheesy or something, but oh welp. A shout out to [sparkagrace](http://sparkagrace.livejournal.com) for her kind, encouraging words and (kinda?) betaing! I owe you.

The phone is blinking and vibrating, and Michael’s heart sinks when he sees the caller ID. _Ryan Lochte_. Great. Maybe he should have listened to himself three months ago when he thought he should delete his number. But he didn’t, and if he’s honest with himself, he knows the reason why.  
  
He lets the phone vibrate against his coffee table a tad longer, on purpose, before he picks it up. He hears the thump of music blasting on the other side of the line, and it doesn’t take him long to know where the caller is or what state he is in.  
  
“What’s up?”  
  
He hears the drag of Ryan’s chuckle, half-drowned in the blare of noises. He hates it. Even just imagining Ryan standing in the middle of the club – no, probably at the bar, or behind (he couldn’t understand his fixation with bartending these days, not that he really cares) – he fucking hates it.  
  
“I fucking hate it.” Michael is about to ask ‘What?’ to that statement, but Ryan doesn’t let him.  
  
“Don’t you hate it, Mike?” he continues, and he sounds clearer with each word slurred. He is making his way out of the crowd, Michael thinks. “Don’t you like, hate it, when you’re kissing somebody but it reminds you how different they taste from the person you want? Like, the bad kind of different?”  
  
Michael shifts in his seat on the couch while shutting down the TV with the remote control. He knows what’s coming for him, but Ryan still manages to sneak up on him with a choking question every now and then.  
  
“Are you drunk?” He knows for a fact that Ryan is not sober right now, but he doesn’t know what else to say otherwise.  
  
“And like,” Ryan mumbles like he wasn’t interrupted, “when you’re fucking somebody, you’re like…you hate yourself because you know it’s wrong like, because you’re not even enjoying it, like you think you could forget someone when you do that but you don’t. You end up wishing to have someone’s dick buried inside you, and it’s not fair to anyone and shit.”  
  
Michael sighs, knowing Ryan won’t let this go as long as he’s not without an answer, and so he says, “I don’t know, Ryan. I don’t—I don’t know if I hate it. I’ve never really, you know, done those.”  
  
He hears a thunderous laugh on the line, the blatant mock not intended to escape him. Sure enough, Ryan is quick to retort, “Don’t fucking kid yourself.” His voice is full of contempt, Michael almost flinches.  
  
And as abrupt as he called in, Ryan hangs up on him.  
  
He’s _thisclose_ to dashing his phone against the TV, but settles for throwing it onto the next couch. He watches the phone tumbles down the floor, onto the carpet and groans. He hates it. He hates that even after everything, Ryan still manages to make him become undone with his drunk dialing. It’s not his fault that they’re what they are and what they’re not now.  
  
It’s fully Ryan’s, yes, he convinces himself.  
  
Who the fuck thinks they get to be angry and bitter after rejecting a proposal? Ryan fucking Lochte, that's who. Sure, he didn’t get him a ring or anything, just a breathy _‘Marry me’_ in the middle of their make out session on the washing machine. It was laundry day, and Ryan was naked when he stopped smiling against his lips, stopped kissing at all. Michael had been anxious, and he will never forget the way Ryan’s eyes cast down when he stuttered to give him time. He couldn’t look at Michael in the eyes when he muttered he needed some time alone. He didn’t even say sorry when he left the next morning.  
  
He didn’t bother to collect his stuff at Michael’s house before leaving, and Michael had spent weeks wondering if Ryan would come back eventually before deciding he wouldn’t and gathered them all in boxes. Might as well ask him to put together the pieces of his shredded heart.  
  
_Don’t fucking kid yourself._ What the fuck is that supposed to mean? That he’s not happy with his life right now? That his kissing and fucking Megan is his trying to forget Ryan and fail miserably?  
  
Michael snorts so hard, feeling a little pathetic at the end of it because that’s how hard he tries to ridicule Ryan; it doesn’t matter if Ryan is right or wrong, but Michael shouldn’t have to feel like he needs to prove him wrong, and the fact that he does bothers him.  
  
The fuck, ever.  
  
It’s been four months since Ryan left, and it’s not like they have officially ended things – Ryan just wouldn’t talk to him about it at all. He has moved on, or so he thinks, and was happy (as happy as someone who was recently rejected and dumped can be, that is), until a month ago a certain someone decided to get _really_ wasted every weekend and drunk dial him every time.  
  
What angers Michael most is that now come weekends, he practically jumps in anticipation whenever his phone rings or vibrates.  
  
A week later and he finds himself sitting in the same spot, _very casually_ glancing at the phone for a few times, feeling a bit relieved that Megan isn’t around to drag him out of the house to meet people he doesn’t care about and eat food he doesn’t like. Earlier today Megan sighed, “Honey, live a little,” and he had a sorry smile plastered as an apology.  
  
The one he’s actually feeling sorry for is himself, judging by how ridiculous and silly he’s been acting these couple of weeks, all for a guy who ran away the moment he asked him to spend the rest of their lives together. One thing anyone should know, it takes a hell of a lot for Michael Phelps to even start thinking about proposing someone. He was toying with the idea for the longest time before blurting it out. So, to have that kind of emotional investment dismissed as easily, can anyone blame him for failing to move on?  
  
Hours go by and it’s already 2:18 AM. Megan has long gone to bed after coming home tipsy and giggly. He has dutifully stripped her out of her clothes and tucked her into bed like a good boyfriend would, but instead of joining her in bed, he’s back on the couch. His phone hasn’t been displaying any means of communication.  
  
He convinces himself that he’s still up and awake only because these late night TV programs are pretty engaging, yes.  
  
But as soon as the phone on his lap vibrates, he somehow knows what a bullshit that is.  
  
He clears his throat, preparing himself for any drunken pop quiz Ryan would possibly come up with.  
  
“Ryan,” he says, as confident and nonchalant as the Greatest Olympian of All Time should and can be.  
  
No loud music or giggling girls. No lazy chuckle against his ears. No nothing.  
  
“Ryan?” He makes sure it isn’t laden with worry, only nonchalant curiosity.  
  
He waits for a few seconds and is considering to hang up the phone when he hears Ryan’s small cough.  
  
“Hey.” For once, Ryan doesn’t sound inebriated.  
  
When Ryan is drunk Michael kind of knows to shrug it off, but now he’s completely responsible for his words and Michael is nervous. Truth be told, this is the first time after he left that Ryan is voluntarily speaking to him in all sobriety.  
  
“You could do better, you know?”  
  
He serves his rhetoric with silence. Ryan doesn’t take long to resume, the hint of Michael’s displeasure goes either unnoticed or ignored.  
  
“Like, after me you could at least upgrade. Some actual model would have cut it but no, you gotta settle for someone like, you know, that. Haven’t people told you that?”  
  
“What do you want, Ryan?” Michael growls, feeling like he’s starting to take Ryan’s comment personally.  
  
“I want you to think this over.” Ryan breathes a little too loudly, like it takes a lot of courage to say those words. “Is she really what you want?”  
  
As asked, Michael really does take a moment to ponder. Then he says what he’s genuinely been thinking for the past months, “Maybe I’m done with wanting. It’s great to feel wanted.”  
  
“The whole of America can make you feel wanted! God, Mike, don’t sell yourself short by settling for that!”  
  
“I don’t know, Ry, the last time I went for something I really wanted, the universe kicked me in the balls, so.”  
  
It’s Ryan’s turn to be silent, but only for a while. “So, like, are you saying she’s good enough for you? Like, would you marry her and shit?”  
  
“I don’t know if I would marry her. Maybe I would, someday, I don’t know. But let me tell you this, Ry, if I ever proposed to her, I know the answer would always be yes.” Michael thinks it’s so fucking hypocritical and conceited of Ryan to question someone like that that a strong emotion resembling anger boils inside him, and so he continues with spite, “What do you care anyway? Why, you think you’re better than her? You think you’re good enough for me?”  
  
Sure enough, those words he hurled have done their job of hurting Ryan when he curtly hangs up.  
  
If what he said managed to hurt Ryan, Michael thinks what he’s feeling is even worse. He hates that he can’t even hurt Ryan without feeling this bad. He wishes he could spit hurtful things and be content about it, but if this aching thump in his ribcage is anything to go by, he sure as hell is feeling the complete opposite.  
  
The vibrating phone in his hand startles him. Ryan’s number is displayed, and he didn’t know it was possible to resent a set of numbers until now.  
  
He picks up hastily, too caught up in hating the number than thinking of the consequence of talking to the caller itself. Before he can say anything, Ryan starts bombarding him,  
  
“Maybe I didn’t say yes, but I never said no. And when I said I needed time, then maybe it really means I did. And yes, I fucking think I’m better than her. But you know what Mike? I never really thought I was good enough for you. Maybe when I said I needed time, I was really thinking if I deserved it all, if I could make you happy for the rest of your life. But for a moment you made me believe, and fuck you for that!”  
  
He didn’t even get to say “fuck you back,” when Ryan hangs up on him for the second time of the night.  
  
He honestly thinks that night would be the last time he would hear anything from Ryan again. The next weekend, he is out having dinner with his friends, a lot less aware of the existence of his phone. He allows himself to have fun and get drunk, and Megan is more than happy to be the designated driver, having been trying to get him out and about every weekend.  
  
When he wakes up the next morning, he thinks the headache isn’t as splitting as expected. He cleans himself up while Megan is still sound asleep. He is contemplating if he should fix them breakfast or just take out some brunch when the doorbell rings.  
  
Michael grabs a pair of worn-out sweatpants and uses the towel he wrapped himself in to dry his hair while walking to the door. He doesn’t bother to look through the peephole, convinced that it’s his mom probably sending him breakfast.  
  
It surprises the breath out of him when the last person he expects to be in Baltimore is standing in front of him right now.  
  
“Ry—why, I mean, what are you doing here?”  
  
This Ryan is a person with scraggly, patchy scruff, and a sleep-deprived face, hardly resembling his Ryan he has etched in his head. But this Ryan is also carrying his neon studded backpack his Ryan used to bring every time he came here, so Michael is holding on to the notion that this is not a dream.  
  
He doesn’t miss the way Ryan gives him the once-over and his gaze lingers at his bare torso.  
  
“I know you’re expecting an apology,” Ryan starts to speak, his voice a bit hoarse, and Michael has to wonder if it’s because he’s just woken up or he’s too exhausted. But that hoarseness also sounds achingly familiar, like Ryan naked in the morning with limbs tangled around him, his hair tickling against Michael’s chest, his morning wood grazing his thighs in a lazy drag, and Michael really needs to get rid of the images right now.  
  
“But you know what? I think you owe me one, too.”  
  
Well, that does it.  
  
“Really, Ry?” Michael scoffs in disbelief. If Ryan goes as far as coming down to Baltimore, one might as well expect him to sweep his feet off the ground the moment he saw Michael, but no, of course after all the miles he still has to come up with something that screams ‘Please be pissed off at me!’  
  
Ryan makes a disagreeing grunt, as if he’s desperate to phrase his sentences better. He shuffles on his feet, looking uncomfortable and less Reezy-like, and it hits Michael that Ryan looks like he's ready to sleep for a week if someone lets him.  
  
But Michael can be irrationally unforgiving if he will, and Ryan knows this. He doesn’t ask to come in; he doesn’t think Michael would let him in. He props a hand against the doorframe so as to support his stance, like he’s too tired to even stand upright on his own and Michael almost gives up his I-don’t-give-a-flying-fuck pretense.  
  
Except he doesn’t, and his face is just as rigid.  
  
“Like, I told you to give me time, didn’t I? I meant everything I said. I wanted some time alone to like, clear my head, and think about stuff and shit but you…man, you moved the fuck on as soon as I left this house.”  
  
Michael can’t believe his ears right now. Did Ryan really question his moving on instead of his moving out himself? He tries to shoot Ryan a look, but Ryan’s eyes are practically pleading to him and he can’t.  
  
“Are you listening to yourself?” His voice goes a pitch higher, but he can’t bring himself to care if it would wake Megan up.  
  
“You fucking left this house. I could have given you all the time in the world if you would just…stay. Or like, say something before you left. Even a simple no would have sufficed, then maybe I wouldn’t have to wonder if you’d ever come back. But no, you gotta run away before I even woke up. And _I_ owe you an apology? Fuck logic, right?”  
  
“I never said no!” If Michael’s ears and eyes aren’t playing tricks on him, Ryan almost sounds and looks desperate. “You took me by surprise, and like, you know, the whole world thinks I do shit without thinking, but this is marriage we’re talking about for fuck's sake, and I fucking take it seriously! I–I didn’t wanna mess it up.”  
  
“Don’t you see, Ry? If you gotta take that long to think about it, then maybe you didn’t want it in the first place.” It pains Michael to say that, for that’s exactly the reason why he forced himself to move on a month after Ryan left him. He thought if he actually said those words then maybe he would be more accepting of the notion, but now that he did, it still hurts like a motherfucker.  
  
That Ryan didn't want him _enough_.  
  
“I came all the way from G-spot to talk to you, so would you please listen to me first?”

  
Michael appraises the urgency in Ryan’s eyes and resists himself from saying anything.  
  
“When you said those words, I couldn’t think. Like, at all. I was like, I didn’t know that it was possible for you to come up with that. God, Mike, I love you so much I always thought it would be me proposing to you. But when you did, I don’t know, I guess I freaked out. Like, what if things went wrong? What if I screwed things up? What if I wasn’t good enough for you? And you asked me to marry you, so it must be like a big fucking deal but—”  
  
“Fuck, Ry, since when did you have to be the one who worried for us in our relationship? It was my job, had always been. You always told me to live in the present, and so had I been trying, but suddenly at the most vulnerable time I ever put myself in, you said you wanted to think the shit out of it, and left. What else do you think that could that make me feel?”  
  
Ryan’s lips are moving, but to a halt. Whatever he means to express isn’t exactly conveyed, Michael knows, when he eventually says, “I guess you’re right.”  
  
Ryan tightens his grips on the slings of his backpack, his toes of his either foot kicking mindlessly against the porch.  
  
“One month is a long time to think. Right when I thought I was ready with an answer, you showed up to events with this hot blonde chick, you told the whole world that she’s your girlfriend. Isn’t it funny, though, Mike? How long were we together? Five, I think? Including all those years when we weren’t exclusive. Never once did you address me as your boyfriend—”  
  
“But when I was ready to, you bailed out,” Michael is fast to correct him. “You left me in the darkest pitch, Ry, and it was a god-awful month I wouldn’t wish on anyone. I had no choice but to try to move on.”  
  
Ryan nods in defeat. “You’re right. I guess I thought I could always come back. I thought—I assumed and it was so fucking selfish of me. I’m sorry. I don’t even know why I’m trying anymore.”  
  
He looks genuinely wounded when Michael adds, “Maybe you should move on too.”  
  
Michael doesn’t know when Megan has been standing behind his back, but when she slips her arms around his waist and murmurs a sleepy ‘Who?’, he can’t help but feels relieved. He doesn’t want to have to explain anything to her.  
  
The distaste is apparent on his face, but Ryan clams himself up. Knuckles are turning white; lips are a thin pressed line. He stares at the hands around Michael’s waist, and back to his eyes. Michael is convinced that at this point, it truly is his eyes that are deceiving him because Ryan Lochte can’t possibly give that look so painful it hurts Michael instead.  
  
Megan slides herself around his arm and kisses his cheek, standing by his side in his over-sized white t-shirt. There’s a genuine look of surprise in her face when she recognizes the guest, but it’s quickly replaced with a mechanical smile. She doesn’t say anything when she nods to acknowledge him, and Michael knows he has underestimated her knowledge about this particular matter.  
  
Ryan gets what Megan insisting to possessively stand beside Michael means, and so before he leaves, he pretends that she doesn’t exist as he looks at Michael in the eyes and then says, “In case you ever wondered what the answer was – not that you need it anymore – it’s a yes. It’s always been a yes, and I’m so fucking sorry that we’ve come to this when I finally said it.”  
  
He watches as Ryan listlessly walks across the lawn, feeling the grasp of Megan’s arm around his waist tightens as he does. He swallows whatever words threatening to come out of his mouth – maybe something like “Fucking come back, you piece of shit!” or maybe “Delete me from your phonebook!” or a mere “Fuck you for ruining everything!” – and holds her tight, as if she’s the only thing holding him from running towards Ryan and doing things he’d regret later.  
  
Megan pulls him in and closes the door, and it bothers him that between the closing gap of the door and its frame, he’s still fixing his eyes on Ryan’s back.  
  
The best thing about Megan is she’s a pretty good distraction. Like, right now, when it’s painfully obvious that Michael is still hung up on Ryan, she's kissing his collarbone and then trailing her tongue wet down his stomach, hands working to slide his pants down as she goes down on her knees.  
  
The most fucked up thing about this distraction is it doesn’t exactly work the way a distraction should. Not when all Michael could think about at the back of his mind is Ryan in all his morning glory – jumbled bed hair, semi-hard, blissful smirk and squinty deep blue eyes – deep throating him instead of Megan, and it’s killing him how wrong and unfair it is.  
  
When he comes he bites his lower lip so hard lest he should moan out Ryan’s name, and he swears to himself that would be the last time it ever happened.  
  
It is, but that’s only because they have stopped having sex at all that week. Last Tuesday night Michael was lying down on the couch when she crawled on top of him, her gaze heavy and seductive. Michael had tried to get into it, and failed miserably. He choked out _I’m not feeling good, sorry,_ but judging by the way she looked at him, he knew she wasn’t sold. Since then, she has avoided him like a disease.  
  
The fact that he’s relieved by this turn of events is killing him even more.  
  
It’s not like Megan deserves that. If anything, she has (sort of) helped him go through sleepless nights. But somehow, he guesses he’s always known that’s what she ever is to him, or will ever be. She’s been a great companion, but he doesn’t have it in him to think of her beyond that.  
  
She’s someone he can... _stand._ (And Ryan is certainly not. At least not right now.)  
  
She doesn’t burn the house playing firecracker.  
She doesn’t fracture her ankle riding a scooter.  
She doesn’t break her ankle skateboarding.  
She doesn’t break her wrist breakdancing.  
  
Most importantly, she doesn’t break his heart.  
  
_But Ryan said yes, isn’t that all you’ve been wanting all this while? Isn’t that what the pain has been for?_  
  
Michael curses his logic, because logic is not cutting it. Fuck logic, his ego can’t afford that. Even after four months, he still gets mad and furious when he thinks of what happened to them. Of what happened to him. He’s allowed that, surely? He’s the dumped one after all.  
  
But not a single day of this week has passed without him asking how.  
  
How did things get so wrong when they were nothing but in love?  
How did he let them get this far and estranged?  
  
Maybe he should have fought for them first before he turned to someone else. Maybe Ryan was right. Maybe the only reason Ryan left because he believed he could always come back. Maybe Ryan took him for granted, but maybe Ryan’s having that kind of expectation also speaks volume of his faith in him.  
  
Then why was he not there for Ryan for he finally made up his mind?  
  
What does that say about his faith in Ryan instead?  
  
The realization comes down crashing upon him while showering and he’s pretty sure his skin is still lathery on some parts when he hastily rinses off the soap. He hopes to God Megan is around because it will be a dick move to explain his next act through the phone.  
  
She’s picking at green salads when she sees him walk towards, and suddenly she is more interested in the pattern of the kitchen island’s marble counter than acknowledging his looming presence.  
  
He clears his throat, sits in front of her, and utters a string of apologies and an honest explanation, however selfish it may sound. If she is angry, which she has the right to be, she doesn’t show it. Instead she gives a half-assed sad smile when Michael says, “I wish I weren't that selfish to end things like this, but I guess I am, and Jesus, Megan, I only want to be happy again, and we both can’t make each other _happy_ happy. I think you know that too.”  
  
He is ready for whatever insults that may be coming out of her mouth any second from now. The fact that she hasn’t interrupted him at all is pretty surprising in itself, to be honest.  
  
Megan is stabbing her vegetables, and Michael has to wonder if it’s his face she’s imagining as.  
  
“I was wondering when this would happen, and now that it did, it doesn’t feel as bad as I’d thought,” she speaks, too calm unlike what Michael expected.  
  
She stands up, the screech of the stool the only sound accompanying them. She disappears into the hallway and he thinks that it feels like forever when she is standing in front of him again, this time with two suitcases and a handbag.  
  
“God, I wish I could hate you right now,” Megan grumbles, “but I guess I’ve always seen this coming? If only you weren’t that transparent with your hang-ups that I didn’t have to pretend it was okay, then maybe I’d have felt a little more indignant.”  
  
Instead of saying anything, Michael gazes at her in earnest, trying to get his apology across. Not that he expects to be forgiven.  
  
“I hope you step on a Lego, Michael Fred,” she finally says before she walks out of the house, the disdain hardly tangible.  
  
He knows it’s meant to lighten herself up rather than himself, but he genuinely feels sorry towards her to so much as smile in reply.  
  
But boy, had he known it would feel this liberating, he would have done it ages ago. Then again, had he known what it was like to come to terms with his own feelings, he wouldn’t have started this mess of a rebound in the first place.  
  
It’s not until he’s buying the next ticket to Gainesville that he realizes that it’s weekend again. It’s funny, he thinks, what weekends have in store for them for the last couple of months. Drunken and sober phone calls, a whimsical journey from Gainesville to Baltimore, and now the other way around. As he hops on the plane, he can only hope Ryan is still what he was when he came up on his porch a week ago – very much in love with him.  
  
Because otherwise, this whole thing will be fucking pointless, and he fears going through _again_ what he has been in the last months will cause him permanent damage that the notion alone has almost stopped him dead in his tracks.  
  
The journey gives him hours to prepare himself with lines and arguments, best he could possibly come up with, but this time, he’s refused to think 10 steps ahead of Ryan, because _you know, MPeezy, you gotta start living in the present, baby!_  
  
He starts to regret that decision somehow when he’s standing in front of Ryan’s house. How does he begin? He mulls it over for a solid minute and decides with a knock.  
  
Because obviously, a knock is the most sensible thing to do when you come to someone’s house, right?  
  
He doesn’t know what to expect, in all honesty. He hopes for Ryan to be pleasantly surprised, sure, but he can’t quite say he anticipates the same.  
  
When the door is flung open, however, seeing Ryan’s face lightened up a thousand shades brighter when he takes in all 6 feet 4 inches of him, Michael just _knows_ that this isn’t another mistake.  
  
Perhaps, it’s the only thing he’s done right the whole time they’ve been apart.  
  
“If you don't say yes this time, I’ll fucking kill you.”  
  
There’s a lot to digest, Michael reckons, for a normal person. But Ryan is Ryan – the second Michael finishes his menace Ryan’s already clinging to him like his life depends on it. If Michael is honest with himself, he'd like to believe so.  
  
It’s a blurry, hasty event of clashing teeth and desperate mouths and limbs afterwards, and when Ryan finally pulls away, it’s not without a chant of yes whispered against his lips.  
  
“Yes, yes, a million times yes, you fucker.”  
  
Ryan bites his lower lip when he chuckles to his answer. He pretty sure he tastes something salty when they’re kissing again, and _wait, are Ryan’s cheeks wet?_  
  
But he decides to rib about that later because now, nothing seems more important than to bask in the feel of Ryan against him, and God, why did it take him four months to have this again?


End file.
